Seeking modern poems worth reading

The sky asks

Why is the sunset on the water

one after another

disappearing into the twilight?

The lights of the earth

One by one, why

have they gone into the night?

The stars in the sky

One after another, why

have they all gone into the dawn?

How is it that our lives,

day by day,

have been reduced to eternity?

And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?

And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?

And when I go away, what kind of sky is it that takes me away?

Is it twilight? Is it dusk?

Is it the night color?

Is it the dawn color?

Firebath

An unquenchable yearning for different elements

For different spaces, for heat or cold

Not knowing whether to rise or fall

Rising like a phoenix, rising in the midst of the fire

Or floating in fluid transparency, a swan's cloak

A pure white image reflecting the self

Long necks and rich bodies, all made of fire, all made of white, all made of white. A long neck and a rich body, all made of curved lines

There is a desire that needs to be washed and burned

The process of purification, both

That which precipitates needs to be precipitated, and that which flutters floats

To the water, a fowl, to the fire, a firebird and a waterfowl

Then shall I choose, which process to choose

There is a swan in the West, swimming on the ice sea

That is the cold zone, a superhero, that is the cold zone.

That's the cold zone, a superhuman climate

Where the ice freezes and the loneliness freezes

Silence is the stillness of time, and the reflection is complete

Once, every wild goose was a swan

The water shimmered, like a dream or a reality

In the East

On the hot East, there's a phoenix

On the fire that comes from fire, comes back to the fire

Step by step, one by one. The fire dances the flames

Burns the crows, burns the phoenix

One feather of the sun rises in the quivering eternity

Cleaner than the clear, the fire is the warrior's journey

Glorious reincarnation is the soul from element to element

White peacocks, swans, cranes, white coats and white fans

Time stands still, in the midst of which dwells the wise man, the recluse

Forever flowing, evermore. The flames of fire

Wash away the sins of the warrior, the blood of the warrior

And what shall you choose for your soul

Cold in the cold, or hot in the heat

Choose the sea of ice, or choose the sun

There are clean souls, and there are always unclean souls

Or baths of ice, or baths of fire, both are completion

Both are adorable completions, and baths of fire

Baths of fire

And baths of fire

Baths of fire

Baths of fire, and baths of fire.

The bath of fire is more adorable, the bath of fire is more difficult.

Fire is more transparent than water, deeper than fire.

Fire, the gate of eternal life, arched with death.

Arched with death, an arched challenge.

Saying that he who has not embraced death can not be born.

It is the crows, the phoenixes, that decide, in a single moment,

a single moment, to swallow the will of the fire. To accept that kind of punishment

To shout frankly to the thousand tongues of the Crossing

I am not guilty! I am not guilty! I am not guilty! Branded on my back

Branded on my face, I am still me, still

Sober me, soul, what's wrong with being awake

Spreading my burning arms, I can smell it from afar

The hurricane of time whistles my wings

The hairs weep, the bones groan, and with my own blood

To torment myself, to fly, phoenix, your newborn

It is said, "My song is an undying longing, a yearning. My song is an unquenchable yearning

My blood boils and stops to bathe my soul in fire

Listen to the song of fire in blue ink

Lift it up, clearer and higher after death

Stone Age

Whenever I stand at the window in a daze

At a spread hand

I can't reach the stone that's destined to be there

---- Carve my name in mysterious seal script

to prove that I am who I am

The stone of destiny

It's so strange

It's as if we're still in the stone age

An awkward four-sided weapon

I have to carry it in my bag every day when I leave the house

Signing it by hand and in person isn't enough

It's not enough to wait until I've signed it by hand.

The woman in the window won't give up until the stone nods

A stone to recognize ghosts when you die

A stone to recognize people when you are alive

Why can't you break the stone's spell after thousands of years

Question for you, stone in the pouch

When are you going to let go? Spring

That's all it is in the end

Some wounded memories

Some desires and dust

Or maybe so-called spring is just a crisp specimen

A bookmark that was once a daffodil or a butterfly

Burial of the stars

Pale blue night spills into the window Summer pours too full

Author: 220.249.37.* 2005-12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement

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2 Yu Guangzhong Poems

The fireflies' little palace lights dream

of the Tang Palace, of the chasing light-robed fan

of another summer night, of a star's funeral

of a flash of light reaching out and wiping out

and your exclamation of surprise, my recollection, and a moment of countenance

Wind chimes

My heart is the wind chime suspended from the eaves of the seven-tiered pagoda. The chimes

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle

They rise and fall, knocking at one's name

---- Do you feel a tremor in your tower too?

It's the pulse of silence, day and night

Do you hear it, ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling?

This annoying tone is forbidden

Unless all the winds are diverted

The bells are plucked, the towers brought down

Because my heart is a wind chime high and low

Tinkling, tinkling, tinkling, tinkling

They come and go

They ring out a name

Figurines of the Qin Dynasty

---- Terracotta warriors unearthed in Lintong

Armor undone, hands still clutching

Bows and arrows or spears I can't see

If gongs and drums were suddenly struck

Would you turn around, immediately

Run toward the sands of 2,000 years ago

To join the rows and columns of your fellow warriors?

If you suddenly opened your eyes and your might flashed

Mustache cocked with primness and untamedness

How should the astonished spectators walk away?

Fortunately, your eyes are still closed, as if you

have been accustomed to the darkness of the netherworld for years

How can you be exposed at once?

If you were to open your mouth suddenly, who would be able to hear the thick Qin accent

and the ancient tones?

Separated from the riverbank of time

I don't know there is Han, moreover, regardless of the later

You say your Xianyang, and I say my Xi'an

Incident, who can say the game of chess in Chang'an?

And no matter how strong your arrows are

No longer can they reach the Peach Blossom Garden

Asked if this is the right world, I can't hide it from you

The empire of the First Emperor, where cars traveled on the same tracks and books were written in the same language

The mighty black flag fluttered from the Great Wall to the Crossing Points

Only passed down to the Second Emperor, and then you were left behind, the warrior

Leaving behind the pits and valleys full of figurines

With all the warriors, you are now the only one who has ever lived.

The discipline of the six thousand soldiers and riders

were said to have no clothes

and the son of the same robe

Wang Yu Xing Shi

repairing my spears and spears

generous song, followed the ancestral dragon

all into the ground, but did not expect to be only three?

It's no longer a world of Ying

No longer a world of Ying, but a world of Qin

We have been called by the foreigners

How many times has the Yellow River been cleared?

How many times has Harley turned back?

After two thousand years of darkness and confinement

Appointedly, you are unearthed everywhere

Reorganize your ranks in museums

Lifelike eyebrows and solemn, clamor-free looks

Testify to a missing empire

And the boisterous spectators, we

We are all going to the ground in a twinkling of an eye

Will have to wait until the year, the month, and the day, when we can see what happened. We are of flesh and blood

And in the twinkling of an eye we will perish, like the nobles you buried

Leaving behind only you, the immortal ones, the six thousand soldiers

The Tongguan Pass has fallen, and, alas, Xianyang will not be defended

Who will save the fire of the A-fang Palace?

You will never be able to return, you will be

Hostages of the next generation, prisoners forever

And there are more than twelve golden figures to keep quiet?

Who says there is no descendant? You are the most honored descendants, who did not go into the past with Emperor Shi Huangdi

but with Xu Fu's 6,000 men and women

who were sent to the future to explore the idea of everlasting life

The veil of the tent

The midsummer night of my childhood

When I was a child I had my childish dreams all sewn up with white veil

The dome of the tent slanted down softly

When I was a child I was a child I was a child of the emperor, but when I was a child I was a child. It slopes down gently

The tiny holes of nebulae

are a little hypnotic to look up at

And the net of dreams is always too dense to allow a bloodthirsty assassin to fly in

---- nightwalkers in black shirts and with short swords

Can only whine from the outside

But horrifyingly it allows in the moonlight and the shadows of the trees

. In the timid chirping of insects

A Zen-like mosquito scent

Beckons one to dream, to meander towards the realm of illusion ----

On opening one's eyes

A crimson sunset is halfway to the bed

Send it to the painters

They told me that this summer

You may have plans to travel

To see Van Gogh or Xu Beihong

With an easel, I will be able to paint my paintings.

With an easel and gray hair

and a big smile in Sichuan dialect

Taipei will be empty once you leave, my friend

Not seeing you on the streets or in the alleys

It's the rainy season again

Black umbrellas all over the sky, yellow mud all over the ground

Why can't you wait until the Mid-Autumn Festival?

Only the southern rice fields you can't take away

The temples, the buffaloes

And at dusk in summer

there's always an egret, two egrets

that fly up as if they remembered something from your ink paintings

The third season

The third season, the third season of the xiao and the harp

The third season of the bhikkhu, the third season of the xiao and the harp

The third season of the bhikkhu, the third season of the bhikkhu.

The bhikkhuni loved to count her rosary beads under the grapevine

A purple murmur knocks at my window

The sun, the sun is a late announcer

Can't throw in the golden news

I can't throw my sorrows

Out of the wall like the remains of a six-legged insect

When the wind, like the wind, is like the wind, the wind is like the wind, and the wind is like the wind.

When the wind is like a greedy wild boy

Sweeping away the long hair, looking for someone's round neck

I want to board the long-distance blue stagecoach

To the south, to the south that is not yet over

Waiting for you, in the rain

Waiting for you, in the rain, the rainbow rain

The cicadas are sinking, and the frogs are rising

The pools of red lotus are like red flames, in the rain

When I am in a pool of red lotus, in a pool of red flames, in the rain

When I am in a pool of red lotus, in a pool of red flames ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

3 Yu Guangzhong Poems

Waiting for you, in the time of ? Within time, waiting for you, in a flash, in eternity

If your hand were in mine, at this moment

If your fragrance

was in my nostrils, I'd say, "Little Lover

No, this hand should pick lotus, in the Wu Palace

This hand should

Swing a cinnamon syrup, in the Mulan Boat

One star hangs On the eaves of the Science Museum

Hanging like an earring

The Swiss watch says it's seven o'clock Suddenly you come

Step by step, the red lotus, fluttering after the rain, you come

Like a little song

From a love story you come

From the words of Jiang Baishi, rhymingly you come

The Temple of the Enlightened One

This mirror is so big, look at it.

This mirror is so big, look at me standing in it

There is no reflection of Narcissus

Thinking that the flowers are no longer clinging to me, that the light is flowing freely

Bhikkhuni, if the bells of the bronze bells are clasped

Listen to the moss that slides down the moss in some eras

Self-consistently rounded skulls

And on top of the tower are the clouds of India, and on top of the tower is the mother

Take the ancient ashtray and see the umbilical cord of mine

Connecting everything that was ever there

call me back to the rest of my life

The man who gave me the fan

--- Ask me if I'm not happy to be here.

No, I think of Shu, but I am not happy

Eighteen bamboo bones were twisted into a plain fan

The thin Shu man used a rounded script

to record a song for me called "Linjiang Xian," which was filled in by a man of gold

Turned around and entrusted to an overseas friend to give it to him

Said that he would give it to me for me to "brush away the summer heat," and look at the inscription

Dated at the beginning of the Autumn Festival in the year of Yin.

The almanac says the White Dew has begun to fall

Waving my fan, I asked where the wind was blowing from.

From the head of Xiziwan, or Dongpo's hometown?

Looking out over the strait, where is the Middle Kingdom a hair?

When really, dew, from this night white?

And the moon, is it really more clear where it came from?

Originally, I am not from Shu, but in the era of the war

When the sun flag darkened the sun of the Central Plains

The Yi burning bomb flickered and blew up Chongqing

The Chuan Waer but I have done eight? I dug groundnuts, caught frogs and fireflies

After a sudden rain, I couldn't finish picking out the ground

The white fruits of the ginkgo biloba were like gentle tung-oil lights

Roasted with fragrant, ripe beeps and flakes

Summer nights under the yellow kudzu tree, a small bushel fan

Gently shook the sky full of stars

The Jialing River in the basin of my youth is still

The echo of the river is still there

The river is still running day and night

The river is still running day and night, the river is still running day and night. The Jialing River is still running day and night, and the echo is faint

like the four voices of the steady Sichuan dialect

forty years later, it is still flowing through my teeth and lips

forty years later, every time I listen to the rain

pouring down on the Shoushan Mountain behind my house

that piece of sound is still like the Bashan Mountain

You asked for the return date, how many times has Bugu urged me to do so

the strait and loneliness has not yet been returned to me

the river has not yet returned to me.

Nine hundred years ago, across another strait

Another poet looked on with gray hair

Thinking of the day when the Su family's wandering son left the Sichuan River

Riding on the muddy river to the east

Rolling waves never look back

And I entered the river at the age of ten, and I left the river at the age of eighteen

The same heave sends me across the Ba Gorge and the Wu Gorge

The same heave sends me across the Ba Gorge and the Wu Gorge

We are the only ones who have been in the river for a while. Wushu Gorge

The same never-returning, never-returning again

Is there a shore, and what kind of shore is it?

Waving the bamboo fan you inscribed in your hand

With the Tropic of Cancer further south, the summer heat has not yet broken

Saying what ice skin and jade bones are, since it is cool and sweat-free

To the Taiwan Sea where the container ships are far away

To y remember a mountainous country without coast

Chongqing after the enemy planes bombed

Chengdu after the Cultural Revolution

The young man who was gifted when I was a child

When I was a young man, I was a young man, I was a young man.

Jiange and Wufeng locked

Today's Shu Road ah travel how difficult?

The myth of Dinghu

Rusty is the steel axe of Pangu Gonggong

Splitting out the Kunlun Mountains of that handle

Decayed is the old chief Xuanyuan's crow horn

Shot through the Chi You of that one

The Zhuo Deer, Zhuo Deer in the oracle bones

The snowman in the world's roof to pick up the

Peng's remains of the feather When the Yellow River diversion

The Qianhe River

When the Yellow River diversion

When the Yellow River diversion

The Qianhe River

The Qianhe River, the Qianhe River

The dry riverbed bears the unicorn's footprints

After five hundred years have passed there are still five hundred? Not a single phoenix can fly in a jet cloud

The dragon proved to be a cloud-watching reptile

Cousins, it is said that we are a tribe that shoots at the sun

There are chiefs with heavy pupils, chiefs with colorful eyebrows

Chiefs with a horse's beak, chiefs with an ovum

Don't believe it, ask Peng Zu

Peng Zu couldn't read Cangjie's manuscript

To ask Lao Zi, Lao Zi was in the middle of the river, I was in the middle of the river. Ask Lao Tzu, who blinks in the Tao Te Ching

Ask Qizi, who hides in a bomb shelter

Refuses to give interviews to journalists

Should've donated Ancient China to the British Museum

Cousins, go to the crashed Buzhou Mountain

Sit on the fossils and cry at nightfall

Turn the multicolored stones into a meteor shower

And cry all night long

And cry all night long

And cry all night long

And cry all night long

All you can, you know, you know.

And cry a night, cousins

Crying Pangu's eyes into a lunar eclipse

And resting his head on the Sutra of the Mountain and the Sea

And resting his head on the bosom of Mother Rayon

And renewing a five thousand year old dream of the Yellow Ridge under the star Sirius

Dreaming of the ashes of heroes rekindled under the ground

The ground stepped over the ranks of slaves

The ground was a dream of the heroes who had been killed in the war.

Dreams and Geography

Shaped like a sea-horse on its side? Behind that one monstrous rock at the head of the headland

If I keep walking forward

Is it the staggering Pescadores?

And over again, blocking behind that small rocky islet

Should it be Xiamen, or Shantou?

---- are but the distance to Taipei

If, this quadrilateral red building of the Faculty of Arts

The row of windows facing the sea is southwest by west

Author: 220.249.37.* 2005-12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement

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4 Yu Guangzhong's Poems

The cargo ship with its porthole shadows misty

Is it facing directly, or diagonally toward Hong Kong?

And that magnificent sunlight

Will Vietnam, which has long been ash, burn again?

The quizzical looking glass goes back and forth

---- binoculars, seven and a half times

It was borrowed from a colleague

for tonight's hunt for Halley's Comet

Earth is full of obstacles, but space is not

To these questions of dreams and geography

The mirror shows the end of the thousands of waves

A horizontal line is there, but it is not there

Another one. The horizontal line, if there is one

is the answer to all the questions of the sea

Traveling the highway with Li Bai

You should have had less to drink in the store just now

Imported whisky is no better than liquor

It's too strong, and it's Wang Lun's fault

What's the point of having to call a hoochie

They're pouring into the glass over and over again

You should have listened to the doctor's advice. You should listen to your doctor, not Wang Lun

Cirrhosis of the liver, yesterday the newspaper said

has been upgraded to the seventh killer?

Just killed a martial arts celebrity

You keep saying that you want to seek immortality, seek chivalry

Is Kunlun too far away, close to your wine ? Going in search of the Dirt Man and the Muddled Immortal ?

---- ah ah be careful, so close

Over this kind of container truck is not a child's play

Slow down, slow down, I beg you

The statistics of traffic accidents in the past few years

No less than the casualties of the Anshi Rebellion

This running the world ah is not a heavenly horse

Running the highway is not a hollow

This running the highway is not the same as running the world.

The speed limit, my immortal, is 90 kilometers

How did you get to a hundred and forty?

Stop being a poet, you might as well

Go watch a Spielberg movie

---- Hey, listen, it's like an ominous siren

It's catching up with you, just pull over

Switch seats with me, quick, don't let

Traffic police catch you driving drunk-eyed

Alcohol is running through a large part of your veins

The poet is a poet, he's a poet, he's a poet, he's a poet.

The poet's image is bad enough

Critics and cops are equally unforgiving

It's a dubious "unemployed" on your ID card

Stop talking about banishment

Not to mention the fact that your driver's license was impounded last week by a store for a liquor debt

Goldwynch and the legislators are offended

He Zhizhang is not here.

He Zhizhang is not here, see who will protect you?

---- six thousand dollars?

When the lawsuits of "Hard to Walk" and "Hard to Road"

are won, the royalties will be paid

and then I will be paid back:

It's really unfair

Publishing law is like the traffic rules

It's enforced every day so seriously?

If Wang Wei hadn't gone to an early morning symposium on

Rim River pollution

we would have

hitched a ride back to Pingtung in his old car

Playing Li Bai

You used to be the Yellow River's water from the sky

Yin Mountain moves

Dragon Gate opens

But now it is the other way around, coming from your lines

The waves and the laughter

Miles of waves into the sea

The great waterfalls that stirred up Kuanglu

Creating something out of nothing

Not stopping

The Yellow River is coming from the west, and the great river is going to the east

And the other 5,000 years have all gone by in silence

There's the Yellow River, and you've got enough to do

The great river, let's let that countryman in the Su family do it

The world is divided into two parts.

The world is divided into two parts

And they all belong to the Shu people

You're at the Dragon Gate

He's at the Red Cliff

Hail Halley

Hail Halley,

Hallelujah Halley.

A faraway traveler from the starry skies, a prodigal son from the space

Once I turn back to the world it's been seven years since the last time I saw you. Sixteen years later

What is the view from half the blue dome

Whether the light years are a long pavilion or a short one

Silver hair flying, white cloak floating

Trailing with the loneliness of a lone warrior for the rest of his life

Committing crimes against the concubine, rushing to Zi Wei, crossing the tantalizing heavenly river

The erratic movements of an ancient book

Confused with the order of the starry hosts

And the emperor and the children were shocked by this. The wars, the revolutions, the plagues and the deaths

Chinese officials don't know how to explain it

Not even the rhymes of the marketplace, nor the slang of the jungle

Waiting for Harley, your forgotten confidante

With the thinness of a parabolic line

Towards the spectrum of the starry race in the depths of the flooded land

To trace the mystery of your wandering birth. As a riddle

Since then you have a common name

Turning back to find your earthly soulmate

Wielding such a signal

To bear witness to him, but sixteen years too late? Prophets, alas, are the early ones who walk alone

Can't wait to meet their prophecies

Like a boomerang you've come slanting in

Against the course of all the planets

All the telescopes are aiming

All the theaters are waiting with excitement

The protagonist has come onstage from the darkest part of the night

The greatest guest of the year from beyond.

Look in the mirror at your touching profile

Dashing long hair combed and brushed

Facing a hurricane from a great ball of fire

Sun Plaza's tandem

Wrapping around an empty U shape

You're making a big U-turn getting ready for the return trip

Nineteen eighty-four Contemporary prophecies have just passed

Again, I've seen you from as far away as ancient times.

The shadow of the broom you dragged is pitiful

How many more threats can the terrified human race endure

How can we blame the earthly disasters on the heavenly ones

You're really a broom, so let's swing it

To sweep away the bad omen from our hearts

You're the one that's been alone, you're the one that's been alone. How many times have you passed in seventy-six years

What is the wrath of heaven that is banishing you

To the cold borders of Pluto

Looking back at the sun, a sickly firefly

Unwilling to be a prisoner of the black prison

You have always come out of the woodwork to the sun

To the fire to worship in a parade

You are always running in the tragedy of the cycle of reincarnation

You are always running in the tragedy of the cycle of reincarnation

That is why we are here. Tragedy

The long flag of pilgrimage all the way

Let me raise my lens to you too

Billions of lenses are raised to you tonight

The short six-inch lens has at one end

a long, endless sky and at the other end

a hurrying and sentient earth. 12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement

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5 Yu Guangzhong Poetry Collection

How many people at this end can Waiting for you

The next reincarnation comes back

At least I can no longer My gray hair

How can it compare with yours even if it's 3,000 feet long

The next time you pass by, I won't be there on earth anymore

But my country is still the five mountains going up

All the rivers are still rolling eastward

The national will will always go forward

Toward the steaming sun and the sun, I'm always going to be here

All the people will always go forward

And the people will never be here. >Toward the steaming sun Like you

When I die

When I die, bury me, between the Yangtze and the Yellow

Pillow my head, white hair over black soil.

In China, the most beautiful and motherly country,

I will sleep openly, sleep the whole continent,

Listening to the two sides, the requiem rises from the Yangtze River, the Yellow River

Two tubes of everlasting music, heaving, toward the east.

This is the most indulgent and the widest of beds,

Let a heart sleep contentedly, contentedly thinking,

Once upon a time, a young man in China used to look westward from frozen Michigan,

To see through the night to the dawn of China,

With seventeen years of unfederal China's eyes

To feast on maps from the West Lake to the Taihu Lake,

To see through the dark night to the dawn of China,

To feast on the map from the West Lake to the Taihu Lake. West Lake to Taihu Lake,

to Chongqing, where there are many partridges, instead of returning home.

Wuling Junior

The typhoon season is crowded with aquatics in the Bus Gap

There's a tributary of the Yellow River in my water system

The Yellow River is so cold it needs to be mixed with a lot of alcohol

Floating at the bottom of the glass is my family tree

Hey! Another cup of sorghum!

Flint in my anger, Dayu in my tears

The drums of Zhuo Lu in my ears

Legend has it that Grandfather shot down nine suns

There was an uncle whose name could scare off Shan Yu

Hear that? A bottle of sorghum!

A thousand gold furs hang in the window of the auction house

When the five-flower horse is gone, all that's left is arthritis

No more weekends waiting for me in Ximending

So there's a nest of kung fu novels hatching under the pillow

Here's a bottle of sorghum, shopkeeper!

Serious winds can cause heroes to hallucinate

When the cough progresses from frogs to wolves

Ribs rattling the iron grates of the asylum

A tornado is plucked from the lungs

It's okay, I'll have at least three more!

The ghost of the last bus is haunting

Raincoat! Where's my raincoat? Six seats on the

Tatami mats, insomnia is waiting for me

Waiting for me to break through six unlit streets

Don't help me, I'm not drunk!

Connected

- imitating Bian Zhilin's poetry

You stand at the bridge and watch the sun set

The sun sets, but you look back

Reviewing the far building

Someone is reading about you at the top of the building

You stand at the bridge and look at the bright moon

The bright moon looks down

But the bright moon looks down

The bright moon is looking down

We are standing at the bridge and watching the bright moon.

looking down at the far window

someone at the window is dreaming of you

sunflowers

the gavel is on Christie's hall

going

going

gone

bang, bang, knock down

thirty-nine million dollars for the high price

buy out Bought out, the nervous breaths of the room

Bought out, the envious eyes of the world

Bought out, broken, an ear

Bought out, scorched, a head of ruddy hair

Bought out, loosened, a mouthful of bad teeth

Bought out, in haste, thirty-seven years old

Mallet raised, to the enthusiastic room

Pistol raised. Against the lonely heart

Broken ears, going

Bare hair, going

Bad teeth, going

Nightmares, going

Seizures, going

Journals and letters, going

Doctors and beds, going

Dear brother. Ah, going

Bang, gone

A generous heart

And into a field full of sunflowers and a sky full of sun

Afterword: On March 30, 1968, the 97th anniversary of Van Gogh's birth

A sunflower of his was sold at Christie's auction house in London

The record-breaking high price was Going, going, gone was the cry at the end of the sale, the end of the sentence and the fall of the gavel

Silver-leaf panel marks

What old tree tells its story

that revealingly?

No need to search for the roots, all the legends

are laid bare

Half an acre of jagged dragon bones and jagged sinews

coiled into a siren that can't fly

Lighten up, shh, lighten up

in case he wakes up suddenly

A thousand wriggling fools, to toss you down

Begonia tattooed.

I always forget that there's a small scar on the left side of my chest

Why is it there? Was it picked by a knife, or a sword

Cut by a sword, or kissed by someone's gentle lips

Not gentle enough to stop a curse?

Until his old age

The day his heart ached

From his naked body in the mirror he found

The scar, the scar that had grown

Whose handprints were on his chest

A bloody crab, a tattoo of a begonia

The twisted and distorted shape he stared at

What was the begonia

The trauma or the internal wound

The trauma of the begonia

The trauma or the internal wound

Whatever it was. whether it's a trauma or an internal injury

I can't tell anymore

Ask the candle

Occasionally, in the night of a blackout

a white candle has the heart to accompany me

to explore the long lost world

Look at the way it leads the way

and the light that cares for me

It is so familiar and relatable

It is not surprising to see that a white candle can be used as a guide for the world.

It makes you wonder if it is the same one that accompanied me to the edge of my dreams

before turning into smoke

Each candle has a story

Told to the fire with the heart of the candle

Is it really the one on the table

that I saw forty years ago?

Is it really the one, Candle, I ask you

A gust of wind passes by and you gently shake your head

With or without meaning to say no

With or without meaning to say yes

Even if you are really the one from the past

It is in the blink of an eye that I recognize

Author: 220.249.37.* 2005- 12-3 22:54 Reply to this statement

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6 Yu Guangzhong's Poetry Collection

How can one expect, in the shifting light

How can you expect that in the shifting light

you will also recognize that this is me

recognize that, ahem, this strange white-haired

is the young man of the day with the ragged hair?

To the lamp

The old age is worth living for, no matter how lonely

The late nights when one must be awake, like tonight

When the sound of the waves gently shakes the restless world

into a dream: the ships in the harbor

The streets down the hill, the wives in the bedrooms

The snores on the desk answering to the winds on the water

It is fortunate that there is still this lamp left. But fortunately I still have this light

to accompany me in savoring the long empty nights

No matter how much anger and sadness is underneath this gray hair

this right hand that won't let go, when everything

can't be grasped any more, especially the years

wanting to take advantage of the fact that the muscles are not dulled and the blood is not yet cold

to ask for a significance of the destiny of the world

and the meaning of my coming. And you, the lamp, are always close by, always looking out for me, always favoring the warmth of a three-foot pulse, and all the secrets that I have to tell the world, no matter how light the brush strokes, you'll consider them important whispers that won't be drowned out by snoring, the wind, and the promise that when I'm asleep at the end of the day you'll still be there to light up the world. Here, just to

Stay out of dreams, to carry my words

To those who must be awake

In the midwinter moon

Mercury's moonlight drenches my bed

Sent by my childhood to find me?

For something lost?

I can't remember how

Only in the ambiguous vision, there is a piece of arm

Is it mine, sunk under the water

A piece of monument to be proved

Precious as the clear light is, if I were to be soundly aged

Wouldn't it be a sin to let down the Cindy, and a sin of elegance?

Surprisingly, I rolled over in the direction of the outside

and collided with the full moon

The hidden loss that I couldn't even avoid

had broken a few things at once?

What's even more amazing is that the moonlight

passed through me without leaving a shadow

I heard my childhood calling me from outside

The trees were silhouetted, and I pushed the window to answer

A gust of wind lifted me up

and floated me toward the ghostly moon in the mirror

and blew all the way through

Yangtze River Boatman's Song

This is a song by a boatman from the Yangzi River.

--Recited in Sichuan tone

I sang on the bank of the Yangzi River,

Songs resounded on both sides of the bank.

I look up to the east,

How majestic is the rising sun!

Heyo, heyo,

How majestic is the rising sun!

Pull a white sail when the wind is blowing,

and fill it to the brim;

Pull a chain when the water is coming up,

and carry the boat to the sky!

Hi yo, hi yo,

Bring the boat on your back!

The smiling waters are like a cradle,

The waters and the wind are a mother's hand.

The crazy waves are a pack of beasts,

Take the boat and carry it away!

Heyo, heyo,

Take the boat and pack it up and go!

All my life I have wandered on the water,

My home is wide:

Breakfast was eaten in Syufu,

Dinner will be told in Baxian!

Hi yo, hi yo,

Tell it again at Baxian for dinner!

I sing on the bank of the Yangzi River,

and the song is heard on both sides of the bank.

I look up to the east,

How majestic is the rising sun!

Heyo, heyo,

How majestic is the rising sun!

The blind fortune-teller

His desolate huqin stretches out the afternoon,

Not a patron is to be found in the side streets;

He holds his huqin again and complains to the dusk:

An empty day's journey earns him nothing but loneliness!

He could tell the fate of others clearly,

his own destiny was a tug of war:

A girl accompanied him through his years of disability,

a cane tasted the bumps and bruises of his life!

The next appointment

--At parting, I re-sent my words, and in them was an oath

When I die, your name, like the last flower

flows from my lips. Your fingers

are a string of keys, luscious

held in my hands, let me open

let me open wide, which door?

It's lucky to die holding your hand

Listen to you, you still love me, listen to you

There's still a phoenix after the phoenix dies

There's still a spring after the spring dies, but at least

there's a May that used to belong to us

Every gray hair still trembles for you, and every dash of suavity

remembers the olden days, remembers

The place where you stepped on a few red lilies bloomed

The place where you stood sprayed a daffodil

You stood in the wind, and your skirt fluttered, and your hair fluttered

Covering your ears in my chest

Listen to my heart, it's tired, it's tired

It is overdue for ZhenZhen ah ZhenZhen

It beats too strongly, it beats too often

It beats too often

It beats too strong, it beats too often

It beats too strong, it beats too often

Love puts too heavy a load on it, love

Love is here at one end and primitive at the other

. Last date in the blue field

And then last time, on the shores of the Luo water

In the flood, in the sea, in the nebulae of the Reins

In the memory, ah, beyond the memory, the other end of the love

Where is the next date, where is the next date?

What do you say, what do you say, I'll follow you

(Can you believe in reincarnation, can you believe?)

Death's black sleeves block, I can't see clearly, but

Well, I hear you, I'll be there